


The Dark I Know Well

by katkrap



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Backstory, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:31:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katkrap/pseuds/katkrap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time is up.  Ten years is done and payment has come due.  And, as always, no one will come to help her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dark I Know Well

**Author's Note:**

> Foreword (originally featured on the blog where this was originally posted): 
> 
> Stephen King said in 'On Writing' that it is the responsibility of a writer to display the action of the events in the neutral. There are things, awful things, that happen to good people. To children, even. Bela’s storyline always struck a chord with me. I knew a girl in high school, then living with her grandparents, who had been in a situation far too similar. And while she carried herself with such dignity and confidence, I’d seen the flip-side of that coin. There is nothing that makes me more ill than the thought of child abuse. Especially sexual abuse.
> 
> The hardest part of writing something like this is being able to look at the event, knowing full-well what is going on behind closed doors and not looking away. Not flinching, and writing that which hurts. Which makes your skin crawl. Not because such events should be written, but because they must be written.
> 
> The title was taken from a song featured in “Spring Awakening” by the same name. I remember how uncomfortable the scene made me feel. There was nothing questionable about the scene at all, just two girls in lacy nightdresses singing a song. But the lyrics? The red lighting and heavy black shadows on the stage? If you did not feel uncomfortable during that scene, there was something wrong.
> 
> I feel that it is the responsibility of the writer to make their audience uncomfortable. To set those fires in their bellies that make them sick, that make them want to scream, “this is wrong.” I would be lying if I said this was an easy story to write. It wasn’t. It is one of the most difficult scenes I’ve written in a long while. I prefer drama and action to the harsh realities of life.
> 
> I hope you did not enjoy this vignette. I hope it disturbed you and made you uncomfortable. I hope that you walk away from this furious and filled with rage. No child should ever have to endure such a thing. No child has ever done anything to deserve such a thing. No PERSON has ever done anything to deserve such a thing.
> 
> I love and support all of you amazing followers, and I pray that none of you have ever had to endure anything of this sort. If you have, you are beautiful and amazing, and don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. I hope you grow strong and beautiful, as you deserve to. I hope you find someone who will love you unconditionally and understand that when you say you need space, that you aren’t pushing them away, but trying to love them better. I hope they are patient with you and that you are really, truly happy.
> 
> With warm and sincere affection,
> 
> -Kat

It was like being a child all over again.  She struggled to keep her voice level, but her whole body was shaking.  Tears began to roll down her cheeks and she began to cry.  “Dean, listen, I _need_ help.”

“Sweetheart, we are _weeks_ past helping.”

She was sobbing now, nearly hysterical.  “ _I know I don’t deserve it—_ ”

“You know what, you’re _right_.  You _don’t_.”

Bela turned the receiver of the phone away from her face, struggled to keep herself from weeping as Dean Winchester continued speaking.  The whole while, she barely heard a word. 

She shouldn’t have been surprised.  No one helped her.  Ever.  Not Bela.  Not Abby.  She asked her mother to help once.  When she was Abby.  When she was still young.  _Begged_ her to help.  Mother’s hands were shaking as she brushed Abby’s hair.  Her voice sounded like the recordings for old radio commercials selling soap, mechanical and happy.  Mother said the same words she always said each night; told Abby how pretty she looked in her new lace nightie.  Told her not to cry or she’d make a mess of her face.  They knew how much Father didn’t like it when her face wasn’t pretty.

Downstairs, Father was shouting.  Something glass broke and Abby began to cry.  Mother was quick with the handkerchief, dabbing at her eyes and telling Abby not to cry.  Telling her there was nothing to cry about.  Bela shouted at her, begged her to do something, to try and stop it.  Mother didn’t seem to hear.  Father’s steps on the stairs were getting closer.  She pulled Abby’s hair over her shoulders, pinched her cheeks to a vibrant pink— _Only whores use blush, Abigail,_ she’d tell her.  _Now pinch your cheeks.  You’ll look healthier—_ and smiled.

Abby was shaking hard, unable to move, barely able to breath.  The panic set in.  She could feel the too-large hands closing on her throat, smell the liquor and sex and her legs went out from under her.  Mother was dragging Abby to her feet as she clawed her mother’s arm, gasped out a reverent mantra of ‘no’ and ‘please.’  Father was already at the top of the stairs, in the hallway.  He didn’t so much as look at Mother as she walked by him.  But to Mother, he was all she could see.

Mother watched him walk toward Abby, grab a thick, caramel lock and twist it around his finger a moment before reaching back to close the door.  All the while, Mother smiled that horrible smile with those dead eyes.

Something inside Abby broke.

She shoved Father, screamed for Mother.  Screamed for anyone, _someone_ to hear her.  A hand wrapped around her throat, picked her up and threw her against the wall.  The display of small glass animals tumbled to the ground along with Abby, little glass legs and faces scattering on the ground.  The back of a hand scattered her face on the ground in a line of red.  She tried to scream, but her head was on fire.  She was being lifted by her curls, tossed across the room.  Her head cracked against the stone floor and, _oh God_.  There was a weight on her chest.  There were hands, sticky and warm and tearing the lace off her chest, pulling the hem up around her naval and…

  1. He asked her why she would tell him?  Why now when payment was about to come due?



Because, she had said, perhaps he would be the one to kill the bitch.  Even as she said it, it tasted of lies.  She knew it.  Dean knew it too.  His tone was soft, reverent almost.  He told her goodbye.  That he would see her soon.  In Hell.

She set the receiver back down, looked at the clock on the bedside table.  The numbers clicked down.

Midnight.

A keen howl split the air and she jumped.  She could feel the sound resonate all the way down to her bones.  She stood from the bed she sat on, walking to the window and pressing both hands to the glass.  Her heart was in her throat.  Her palms were slick with sweat and her body shook with a cold fever.  She heard the door open, heard the heavy footsteps on the carpet.  There was breath on the back of her neck, hot and stifling.  She bite down hard on her tongue.  She wouldn’t cry.  Not this time.  Soon there would be pain.  Soon her clothes would be in ribbons and bruises would stain the canvas of her body until red poured out of her.  She closed her eyes.

It was like being a child again.

 


End file.
